Page 8 of Bourbon and Lies

Me too, girl. Me too.

He lifts his reins and lets out a short whistle, taking the horse from a dead stop to turning in a full circle. He moves past me with enough speed that my hair whips up with the wind andsmacks me right across my face. I don’t focus on the fact that I never got his name. Or the fact that I never told him mine. Instead, the only thing that has my attention is this zero-gravity sensation. A stomach swoop, cheeks burning, and the speechless state I rarely find myself in.

I let out a nervous laugh. “Who the hell was that?”

Chapter 5

Grant

I wanted this.I wanted this so fucking badly that my jaw hurt the second I tapped it. But the body wasn’t right. It was close, but it wasn’t ready. It wasn’t the right time. I know bourbon better than I know myself sometimes. It’s in my blood—the culture of it, the details and notes of what made a batch exceptional, defines our family. I never planned to make a living off it, but there’s plenty that’s happened in my life that I never planned for.

With bourbon, there are rules. And if those rules aren’t followed, then it can’t be considered bourbon. It’s chemistry, oak, fire, and time. Chemistry is learned and manipulated. I know what it means to toast or char. And time is the only thing that feels too slow when you want to stop remembering, and too fast when you look back. Bourbon needs time, and no matter how fast or slow you want time to move, it doesn’t make a difference. Bourbon has rules. Rules keep our business moving. And rules keep people safe.

“You’re up early,” Griz says from the front porch.

I don’t tell him that I’ve been up for hours. Went for a ride to check my bourbon, met one of Ace’s women wandering where she didn’t belong, and took a shower. A cold one at that. Hating myself the whole time, knowing I was hard thinking about that girl standing on my property in just a shirt and no underwear.A handful of rules right there I was breaking—hiding something from my family and looking at someone I had no business looking at in that way.

She looked too fucking young for him.

When I walk up closer, I see Griz leaning against the railing, barely sparing me another glance. “I should say the same about you. Or did you not go to bed yet?”

My grandfather’s mustache is so thick that it barely moves when he speaks, but I don’t need to see his mouth to know when he’s laughing. His deep drawl turns from a low hum into a barked laugh. It’s hard not to smile whenever I hear it.

He gives me a side-eye. “You know my bedtime is when the sun goes down.”

That’s a fucking lie. I came to grab a coffee before I headed into the distillery for the day, not to start word sparring with him, so I let it ride.

I grip his shoulder and squeeze. It’s the typical Foxx form of a hello and goodbye. It’s always been that way, even when we were kids. We were never overly affectionate with each other, but I always knew they had my back the way I had theirs.

He clears his throat before he says, “A bit of a heads up before you go in there.”

I pause, eyebrow raised, already knowing what or who he’s going to warn me about. “He has a guest.”

My grandfather looks down at his cup of what I’m assuming is coffee, but with him, it’s never a guarantee. “I don’t know if I’d call her a guest, per se, but she might be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

I hate myself for wanting to agree. I’m being an asshole for thinking it at all.

“That’s a big statement, Griz,” I say with a wry smile. “You’ve seen a lot of girls in your day.”

Griswald Foxx is one of, if not the best, master distillers in Kentucky, but his second specialty is women. The man flirts with everyone, but it’s women who love him. It doesn’t hurt that he loves to gossip with them as much as he enjoys romancing them.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he just smiles into his cup like he’s got an inside joke with whatever he’s drinking.

When I lean back into the doorway, looking toward the kitchen, I see her again. Her long hair trails down to the center of her back. It’s a warm copper with a few golden blonde strands that remind me of the color that makes metal bend. She looks to the side, studying something on the wall, as her bare legs swing back and forth on either side of the barstool she’s sitting on. I wonder if she’s able to hear us from all the way out here, or if she’s in her own world right now. She looks innocent, but the way her mouth ran this morning, not holding back or mincing words, my guess is that she’s the kind of innocent that gets you close and then eats men for breakfast. I couldn’t stop looking at her as if I haven’t seen a woman in years–in all honesty, maybe I haven’t. I stopped looking a long time ago.

What is she still doing here?

I step back onto the porch, letting the screen door close softly, and ask, “Who is she?”

But instead of Griz answering, it’s my brother’s voice that comes from behind me as he climbs the porch steps. “A friend.”

“That so?” I bite back my smile for the many ways the word “friend” can be used.

“Can you do me a favor and not ask any questions?” He rubs the back of his neck, his tell that he’s uncomfortable. My brother doesn’t do relationships. Never has for plenty of reasons, butone very distinct one. I’ve watched plenty of women be ushered out of here in the morning, but not a single one has ever stuck around. I should leave it. Stop myself before I ask more questions, and go jerk off again. But I pry anyway. “She’s a little young, don’t you think, Ace?”

Griz interrupts with another barking laugh.

I turn my head his way. “Why is that so funny?”

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